Exodus
by ruth baulding
Summary: Qui Gon Jinn will do what he must; his Padawan and the Council must do what he wills.
1. Chapter 1

**Exodus**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

><p>This place is not what I expected. And therein lies a lesson: expect nothing. I am far too old to make such a simple error. I had anticipated ruthless, hardened malice. And indeed, there is plenty of that here. But I did not anticipate the softer, sweeter note: the undercurrent of suffering long endured, of faint hope worn thin by the slow acidic erosion of despair. There are slaves here – scores and scores of them, people whom I have never before seen in all the galaxy.<p>

I am not here to free slaves. I didn't even know the practice existed in this sector, though it comes as no surprise. We are outside Republic boundaries, after all. The Outer Rim is chock full of such obscenities. I am not here to free slaves, but these strange people who skulk in the corridors, necks weighted down by evil slave collars, eyes weighed down by fear – they call to me. No, the Living Force calls to me. It sings in these people, a long lost melody suddenly called back to life. I am enchanted – and I should not be. A Jedi master should not be subject to such distractions. Were I not so enthralled, so horrified, I might already have found the one we are looking for: the escaped convict who fled to this system seeking refuge in a crime lord's fortress.

My comlink chimes.

"Obi Wan."

"I've found him, master. Hiding in a prison cell. Fourth sub-level."

My Padawan's voice is dripping with disdain. The coward we seek thought to disguise himself as a prisoner of the very warlord who shelters him. Clever, really…but not nearly clever enough to slip past my apprentice. Obi Wan is as cunning as any seasoned spice smuggler, as treacherous in his own way as a corrupted politician. I would never tell him these things – he would find the comparison appalling and then seek a way to subtly punish himself. A teacher must be wary of such impulses toward needless penitence. It is not the Jedi way to judge even ourselves without compassion.

"I'll be right there."

"Yes, master. I'll keep him company."

Now there is a smirk behind those clipped tones. Our captive, Rashon Kuravak, must be irate. He has just been discovered and cornered by a mere youth. Humiliating. Especially because the boy can't keep the enjoyment from showing on his face. He tries to be inscrutable, but his eyes are always going to betray him. There is so much to teach…and so much to learn. I just learned another lesson. My distraction – my preoccupation with the slaves here – has made me slow. It was the Padawan who accomplished this mission, not the master. Today, it is my student who has superior focus. He truly will be a great Jedi someday – there are only a few rough edges to be smoothed in his character: a sharp tongue, a thread of defiance, too many attachments. And a blind spot for the Living Force. But not for criminal fugitives.

I step over the threshold of the dank prison cell in the fourth sub-level. There, cringing against the stained and chipped wall, is Rashon Kuravak, a serial killer who had wrought inestimable damage on six different worlds, and who had managed to extend his killing spree to include the guards and warden of the outer rim detention center in which he had recently been incarcerated. He doesn't look so dangerous now, trembling at the end of Obi Wan's bright blue lightsaber blade, which burns scant centimeters from his throat. Sweat trickles down the killer's face and his mouth is drawn into a snarl of fear. His dark eyes flick to me as I duck beneath the low doorframe.

"Jedi," he grunts. "How did you find me?"

"The Force is a powerful ally," I inform him placidly.

"I don't think I like your Force," Kuravak laughs, with a bitter twist of the mouth.

"I don't think it likes you, either," my Padawan replies dryly.

"Obi Wan." I rein in my apprentice's sharp wit and approach Kuravak. "You'll be transported to Coruscant on a Republic prison ship," I tell the trembling prisoner. "Senate security guards have been sent to escort you. I suggest you come quietly and give us no further trouble."

"What about Manshak?"

I smile. "Your host? He is preoccupied with other matters."

"Damn you, Jedi. You and your trained monkey-lizard here."

If possible, the thrumming blue lightsaber blade draws closer to Kuravak's throat. The man tries to shrink into the unforgiving wall.

"Obi Wan." I put more steel into my voice this time. "We shall deliver him to the transport, and be finished with this business."

"Yes, master." The blade withdraws a tiny distance. Kuravak licks his lips and eyes me warily.

We depart, the defeated man secure between us. Nobody speaks. Manshak's strange slaves peer at us curiously, fearfully, as we pass through the halls of the warlord's palace and out into the waiting sun. The mission is complete.

* * *

><p>I have to admit that I'll be thankful to leave this place. Not on account of the mission, of course. In fact, it has been an undisputed success. We arrived without detection; we easily managed to create a massive septic system failure, effectively distracting Manshak and most his personal retainers; we located the fugitive without difficulty; and we sent him packing, in the company of the elite Senatorial guard. I watched the prisoner transport shuttle disappear into the evening sky, to be sure that we are indeed finished with the mission. There's nothing to be uneasy about.<p>

Except I still have that feeling. The bad feeling. The one that feels like quanta worms squirming in my gut. I didn't tell Qui Gon about it – but then, I'm sure he knows anyway. I can tell by the way he watches me set up the camp gear and prepare our rather bland dinner. The words hang unspoken between us : _keep your focus in the present moment, where it belongs._

I am focused in the present, master. See? I'm stirring this delightful pre-fab mush we brought to eat. The insects are humming madly, just beyond the circle of firelight. There are two predators to the east, about a half a klick away, but they are far too intimidated by us to be any trouble. I don't know any of the constellations overhead, but I could draw them in the dust, accurately, if you were to challenge me. I could lift the stone by your right boot – there. I just did. There. I let it drop. You didn't notice. Now who lacks focus on his surroundings?

"Obi Wan."

Oh. I stand corrected. Qui Gon is still hyper-aware of the present moment, even though he appears completely absorbed in the datapad he is reading. I know what he's looking at: a species profile. He's trying to figure out who those people were – the slaves we saw inside Marshaks' stronghold. Neither of us have ever seen people like that before – all huge flopping feet and scrawny necks and mournful eyes and blotchy skin. They were so…muted…in the Force. So downtrodden. I think they would be delighted by anything, by any scrap of pleasure anyone might throw to them. They might even like this disgusting mush. Hmmm….if I weren't a Jedi, I could tell you how it tastes, But I'm forbidden to indulge in such unseemly language, so I really can't.

"Master. Dinner is served."

"Thank you."

He actually eats the vile mess, but it's clear he hardly tastes it. He's too preoccupied by those slaves. The squirming feeling in my gut returns, and I lay down my bowl. I have a very, very bad feeling about this.

"Why haven't we left yet, master?" I didn't intend to sound so accusatory, but I know full well that we're not here to enjoy the local scenery. Qui Gon is reluctant to depart – he feels that the mission is not entirely complete.

He cocks an eyebrow at me, and returns to his perusal of the species profile databanks. The feeling only intensifies. Breathe, breathe, release it to the Force…But the trouble is this: the disturbance centers around my master. He is weighing options, weighing my possible reaction, weighing the Council's possible disapproval. I know that look in his eyes, that strange blurring in the Force that forms an invisible corona about him when he's in this mood. The Force is laughing, sharing a secret joke with Qui Gon Jinn. I wish he wouldn't listen….

"Master." Traditionally, a Padawan only speaks when spoken to. But whoever inscribed that rule into the precepts wasn't taking my master into consideration. "We have accomplished our mandate. You aren't planning on adding another objective to this mission?"

"I will do what I must, Obi Wan." Oh, Force help me. Here we go again. And I have such a very, very bad feeling about this. Immediately I know what he wants to do. I can read it in his eyes, in his mouth, in the air around him.

"We are not going to free those slaves, master. We weren't sent here to do such a thing. This isn't even a Republic territory. We are forbidden to interfere –"

"Padawan." Now I am on very thin ice. Probably already cracked and sinking. I bite my tongue. I was going to say something about pathetic life forms. If I had, the reprimand would have come, sharp and stinging. Qui Gon believes in compassion above all things, even the Code. He will not tolerate what he perceives as flippant disregard for others. He will not tolerate the slightest taint of snobbery. I can feel my cheeks burning with shame.

"Forgive me."

Qui Gon uncurls from his reverie and offers a weary smile. I am forgiven. "Why don't you get some sleep?" And I am also dismissed. I should have known better than to challenge him in such a disrespectful manner.

I stack the eating utensils, and crawl into our tiny thermal shelter. The tent is barely large enough to accommodate Qui Gon's length; but the close quarters serve to maintain a steady temperature during the frosty nights. I wrap my cloak around myself tightly and curl on my side. Sleep would be welcome…if the bad feeling will permit.

"I shall meditate on this, and then consult the Council."

That is Qui Gon's voice, from outside the tent. He does not owe me reassurance or information. But he offers it anyway, because he is Qui Gon. He knows that these words are a balm to my troubled mind. Sleep seems less distant, more tangible. The bad feeling ebbs away a bit, and I thrust it to the back of my mind. Sleep…yes. Sleep.

* * *

><p>I answer the comm summons. Some clever relay officer has transferred the signal to me, since I am the Council member closest to the sector, having just finished some diplomatic business on Phojun; and I was not asleep anyhow. I prefer to spend the nights in meditation. The quiet of the Force is much preferable to the chaos of dreams.<p>

"Qui Gon," I say in surprise.

The flickering blue image is unmistakable. Nobody ever told the old rogue that long hair better suits the young. But he seems bent on defying the common wisdom anyway. He wears his grizzled mane like a king. He stands like a king. But he speaks like a Jedi. I know; I grew up with this man. Beneath the maverick's surface, his heart is true. He is the opposite of his master, I think. Dooku's polished exterior is flawless, but of late I find myself doubting the purity of heart within. If the stark choice were laid before me, I would choose Qui Gon. I hope never to make such a choice.

"Master Windu," he addresses me. Formally. So this is an official report.

"I take it your mission to retrieve Kuravak is complete?"

"Yes," he replies in his soft, deceptively gentle voice. "He is en route to the Republic high security prison as we speak."

"And you are in route to Coruscant as we speak," I add, knowing that this is not so. He feels rooted in the Force. His feet must be on some world's surface. I can always tell.

"No," he admits freely. There is no intimidating Qui Gon. He is a Jedi master, and he is Qui Gon. That is all there is to it.

"You seek the Council's advice on another matter," I prompt. As though he needs it. But he treats every interaction with the Council like a game of sabaac. I must play a card, or he will not respond. I must participate in his terms. He thinks I do not perceive this; or else, he knows that I do and he enjoys the subtle power play.

"Yes." And then he launches into it. I brace myself. "We discovered that the warlord sheltering Kuravak has an extensive holding of illegal slaves."

"Illegal on his world?"

"No," Qui Gon brushes aside the all-important distinction as though it is a gadfly. "It has taken some research for me to identify them, but I am certain that the people enslaved by this warlord are Feorians."

Leave it to Qui Gon Jinn to find a lost remnant of a people thought to be extinct hundreds of years ago. Even the Temple Archives have listed this group of beings as a vanished race, a mere cultural artifact. The Feorians. A gentle culture – not particularly advanced, but very peaceful and rich in poetry and artisanship. There would be many in the galaxy willing and eager to give them protected status as refugees, to sponsor the reestablishment of their society. I know what Qui Gon is hoping for.

"They are outside our jurisdiction, Qui Gon," I sigh.

"The Force does not have a jurisdiction, Mace."

He reverts to my personal name when he is angered. The name is a reminder of the friendship we once shared – before my position on the Council made it difficult to maintain such amiable relations. Now we respect each other, we spar with each other. We could not be friends as we were in our youth. I have a sacred duty to the Jedi Order. Qui Gon has a self-appointed duty to challenge the Order's complacency. He thinks himself above the Order – a servant of the Force itself.

"Your discovery is important," I concede. "We will assign a team to investigate and record the existence of these people. Thank you for alerting us."

He isn't satisfied. "Obi Wan and I are already here," he says, obstinately.

"You are diplomats and field agents. This should be left to others," I warn him.

"I see." His tone of voice tells me that he sees me as a coward and a fool.

"What does your Padawan think of this?" I ask, innocently. Qui Gon thinks he is impenetrable, but I know all the chinks in his armor.

"Obi Wan knows his place," is the terse answer.

So. The apprentice has already challenged his master on this point. That confirms everything I suspected. Admittedly, Kenobi hasn't even seen two decades of life – but you could use him as a failsafe tox indicator. He is so acutely devoted to the Code and to its every nuance that his reactions are a fine gauge of how much rebellion and headstrong whimsy are going on behind the scenes. He has committed a few serious offenses himself – no doubt under the wise tutelage of his master – but even then, he reacted with violent self-recrimination. The Council didn't even have to instruct him. He gave a perfect, detailed account of his every failing, down to the last minutiae, with a look of pure remorse. He's perfect for Qui Gon. He's like the bell around the felix's neck.

"Good," I say. "I'm glad one of you does." Ha ha, you old rebel. Take that.

Qui Gon doesn't surrender, or even acknowledge the hit. "I am requesting permission to extend our stay here for a matter of days, pursuant to the discovery of the Feorians."

"You will depart for Coruscant at first light tomorrow morning," I command. Enough is enough.

Qui Gon bows, in a manner that conveys absolutely no respect or submission, and ends the transmission. I keep my scowl planted firmly in place until I know the link is severed.

And then I let myself relax, even chuckle a little. Qui Gon. Pure, undiluted Qui Gon Jinn. It's a heady draught.. Part of me wishes that I wasn't on the Council. I might sneak over there and..help out. But the time for such antics is in the past. And the Order has much to safeguard, including its own integrity. I am right; I have done the right thing in ordering them home. I will meditate on what should be done about the Feorians. The Force will show a way, as it always does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Exodus**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Mace thinks that I have a choice in these matters. That is as foolish as supposing that a child born Force-sensitive has a choice but to follow the Jedi path. True, he may refuse, or be deprived of the chance to do so. But this course only leads to misery and self-destruction. I can no more return to Coruscant than I can silence the voice of the Force itself. I have a mandate already; there is no space for another.

Alas…I also have responsibilities. Were I alone still, a solitary Knight on an extended journey mission, the choice would be simpler. There would be no student to embroil in my planned transgression. As it is, I cannot ask my Padawan to join me - if for no other reason than I know he _would_. He would follow me off a cliff-face, and thereby ruin his own future, out of sheer loyalty. Many do not see this; certainly we openly debate my infamous disregard for the Council and the Code. But those are words. His passionate defense of the strict path is undertaken on behalf of two: and so, I must bear that trust worthily. I cannot rush in as my heart urges me. I must resort to…my own lessons.

What did I say during that saber practice session last week? "If you cannot overpower your opponent, use his own strength against him."

I cannot flaunt the decrees of the Jedi Code. Not again, not with my student in tow. So I must simply use the Code against itself. An elegant solution. I feel its simplicity resound like a pure note in my mind. Suddenly, I am completely at peace, and therefore completely ready. All I need is a bit of time.

Inside the thermal shelter there is barely enough room to move. My Padawan is an untidy twist of blanket and limbs, usurping more than his fair share of the space. But no matter: I won't be using the second bedroll. I stretch out one hand and flick the learner's braid to one side. He stirs, registering my presence, a non-threat. I place two fingers against his temple, and bring the suggestive, compulsive power of the Force to bear.

"Stay asleep," I command. "Until dawn."

His mind uncoils, more obedient in slumber than in waking. When he does open his eyes at first light, and realizes what has happened, he will be irate. I smile at the thought. He is very, very strong in the Force; but I have thirty five years' more experience. There is no replacement for old age and treachery.

The rest of my plan is straightforward. I set off at an easy pace across the klicks that separate us from Marshak's stronghold. His mercenaries will be out, seeking for signs of the refugee who was taken from under their noses, for signs of us. Marshak is aggravated by our intrusion, by the violation of his sanctuary. He will have sent out scouts, with no particular purpose in mind, just to soothe his frayed nerves. He will be irrationally afraid of another inexplicable trespassing on his privacy.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

The people here are so quaint. I sense the three scouts before they can really untangle me from the shadows. I step forward, to be sure I am seen.

"It's that Jedi!…Be cautious.." They start to retreat, fear rolling off them in waves. This might take a bit more persuasion on my part.

I reach into the Force again, directing it against their impressionable minds. "You would be greatly rewarded for my capture," I suggest. "You will call for reinforcements and try to overpower me."

I can feel them sway under the suggestion like reeds in a stiff wind. They halt, mutter into comlinks, begin to spread out, attempting a pincer movement. I wait patiently, cloaked in the living Force. After a long while – an inefficiently long while – the reinforcements arrive. Ten or twelve armed figures draw closer in a ragged circle. There are seventeen separate weak spots in their attack- but I am not planning on a confrontation. Cautiously, I remove my saber from its place at my belt and conceal it in the tangled roots of a scrub bush. The attackers draw nearer, closing in, using the twisted trunks of the native trees as cover.

"Halt!" one of them calls out again. "You are surrounded! Come quietly!"

I halt, hands held out. Hesitantly, my captors edge forward, blasters and electro-weapons held ready. One of them, a hulking fellow with tusks, dangles a pair of binders in his pudgy fingers. His nervous apprehension trickles through the Force. I let him clamp the metal cuffs around my wrists, while two others shove blaster rifles into my ribs.

"Where should we take him? He'll just bust out of the dungeon. Jedi can pass through solid rock, they say. And kill with their eyes."

"You should take me directly to Marshak," I suggest.

"We should take him directly to Marshak," the leader intones, his mind slack and yielding. I could make him dance a Corellian jig if the fancy seized me. It does not.

The hike back to the fortress is pleasant enough, except for the cold. Our breath condenses into white clouds as we pass without speaking over the hard landscape. The gate sentinel lets us in, his eyes round with shock at the sight of me. A Kowakian monkey lizard perched on the outer ramparts breaks into the shrieking laughter peculiar to its kind. But is the joke on me, or on Marshak? For a moment I wonder about the wisdom of my plan. Then again, I know the dangers of over-analyzing one's actions. We proceed into a wide hall and a courier is sent to fetch Marshak.

The warlord is irritated at being roused from his slumber. He glares at his minions, and then his eyes find me. A smile spreads over his blotched features.

"Well, well," he leers. "We have been recompensed for the damages done today."

The underlings shift from foot to foot, expecting their reward. Marshak steps close, his eyes boring into mine.

"What shall I do with you, Master Jedi?"

"Release me," I suggest. "The Jedi have no argument with you, at present. And you have none with us. I regret that our business here caused us to trespass on your patience. But the affair is concluded, and we will be departing this morning." The words are nonchalant, calculated to offend.

Marshaak curses. I am not familiar with the turn of phrase. "No argument?" he sneers. "There is extensive structural damage to my home," he says. "And two of my best men are missing a limb. _You_ did that!"

"Ah…my apprentice did that. Your retainers fired first."

"I care not for your feeble excuses! And you Jedi have dishonored me. This trespassing, as you call it, cannot be tolerated. You owe me, Jedi."

"If you feel you have been wronged, of course, you may submit an official complaint and a request for-"

"Jedi _birshim_," the warlord growls. "Your Order can repay me. I will hold you as collateral. Here – put him with the other slaves. And send Beobu down there. I don't want him escaping – do you understand?"

The guards nod and mutter their acquiescence. They are still afraid of me, even though I wasn't the one who disarmed their companions yesterday. Most beings in this part of the galaxy know the Jedi only by distorted reputation and rumor. As I am hustled deeper into the cavernous underlevels of the fortress, I cannot suppress a small feeling of smug satisfaction. My role in this charade has been accomplished with ease. Now I must hope that my Padawan, and the Council, will play theirs with as much grace.

* * *

><p>I wake with the first light, my senses wrapped in a hammock of fuzzy warmth. Last time I woke this way, I was in the healers' ward at the Temple. It takes a moment to shake off the unwelcome lassitude. I draw in a breath of sharp, frost-laden air. The stinging in my lungs dispels the dreamy after-effects. I note, with a pang, that the bad feeling has not left me. Why not? It is morning. We will be leaving soon.<p>

"Master?" I whisper.

Qui Gon is not here. He must already have risen. Perhaps he is in meditation. Strangely, I cannot feel his presence nearby. I surmise that his discussion with the Council did not go well; he must be walking off his irritation. I find some unappealing rations which serve as breakfast and then I break camp, deconstructing the shelter and packing the compact supplies into the survival kit. We are ready for departure.

Still no Qui Gon. I shrug, and settle myself upon the ground to meditate.

Twenty minutes later, I open my eyes. The bad feeling is more persistent than ever, and now I have a headache tingling at the base of my spine, behind my temples. Something is very wrong. Where is my master? I try the comlink, and receive no answer. I reach out through the Force, seeking for his reassuring presence. An image swims before my imagination: a dimly lit room, full of crouching and standing Feorians. The slaves we saw in Marshak's fortress. The smoke of a cooking fire meanders through the air, blurring the outlines of the tall, gangly occupants.

The bad feeling spikes in intensity. I can no longer ignore it. The Force is trying to speak to me; it would be foolish to resist any longer. I breathe out, and center myself in the flowing currents…I hear a voice: "_Stay asleep until dawn_." I see Qui Gon's broad back heading, at a swift deliberate stride, across the rocky landscape. I sense his determination to rescue the Feorians, his disregard for the Council's advice.

Anger rises like bile. I wrestle it down, with difficulty. A Jedi does not feel such things. Traditionally, A Padawan does not question his masters' judgment, either. But whoever inscribed that rule into the Code did not take Qui Gon Jinn into account. I release the flare of resentment again. There is no point in dwelling on my feelings. I stand, itching to be doing something. I find the clear impressions of Qui Gon's boots in the soft earth near our campsite. Something to focus on, besides my unruly emotions.

It takes an hour or more to trace Qui Gon's progress, moving from one subtle clue to the next. The sun rises and warms the air. Birds and animals stir in the twisted trees and beneath the stones scattered over the land. I come to a halt. Here, in a dusty space between the hard, malformed tree trunks of a sparse wood, are the marks of many pairs of boots. My master encountered other people here. The Force is strangely placid; had there been a fight, surely a disturbance would linger. I frown, puzzling over it. The footsteps all retreat in a muddled heap, headed in the direction of the fortress. My heart sinks. And then it sinks further. Beneath a jutting tangle of roots gleams a silver and black lightsaber hilt.

Slowly I bend to retrieve my master's weapon. The bad feeling crests and finally breaks into a full-fledged shiver of panic. Qui Gon has been captured. No Jedi leaves behind his saber willingly. Anger forgotten, I remain frozen on the spot, fighting the paralysis which fear inspires. Marshak has Qui Gon in his clutches; there is only one thing for me to do.

If I were younger, I might have rushed headlong into the fortress, bent on my rescue mission. But bitter experience does eventually teach a few lessons. If I were to be captured as well – a possibility which experience and humility must allow – then the situation would devolve into a disaster. Qui Gon will always be one to charge headlong into each new challenge. I, however, have learned better.

I run back to our campsite, and the waiting ship.

* * *

><p>The second transmission comes through six hours after the first, automatically routed to me again. If I had any doubts about my resolution, the sight of Jinn's Padawan appearing over the projector plate dispels them.<p>

"Master Windu," the boy says breathlessly.

"What is wrong, Padawan?" I demand. "Are you and Master Jinn en route to Coruscant?"

He composes himself, shoving hands into opposite sleeves of his robe. "No, master," he responds tightly. "We are still on Seleuvia. Master Jinn has been captured by Rell Marshaks' forces. I …request assistance."

Hell's moons, Jinn! I talked to the man myself, a handful of hours ago. What in the name of the Force has he been up to? His mission was complete, for stars' sake. Qui Gon is a very capable Jedi master; he does not simply fall captive overnight, without warning, without explanation. The Force whispers to me that this has something to do with the Feorians Jinn was so anxious to rescue from servitude.

"Does this have some relation to Marshaaks' slaves?" I ask. I don't believe in beating around the muja bush.

Kenobi looks startled. Then he makes a face – a flitting twist of chagrin. He sighs. "I'm afraid so, Master Windu. I have…a bad feeling about it."

I nod. The Council has discussed this before, albeit not in the boy's presence. His instincts are as keen as a lightsaber's blade. I accept his evaluation of the problem without question.

"I am on my way to you already," I admit.

Kenobi's eyebrows rise, despite his attempt to keep a neutral expression.

"I had a feeling your master might need some friendly persuasion to leave the planet. I see now that I seriously underestimated the trouble ahead. Do not attempt anything until I arrive."

"Should I not make a reconnaissance of Marshaks' fortress? I may be able to determine his location." The Padawan looks antsy – he must be brimming with a desire for action. A most un-Jedi-like lack of control, but one which I am inclined to overlook. I was no different myself at his age, after all. Discipline takes a lifetime of training.

"You may," I give my wary permission. "But you will take no further action until I arrive."

"Yes, Master Windu. Thank you."

That at least is a relief. The Padawan is far more docile than his master – and far more level headed, I am tempted to add.. It was wise to call for back-up. A less cautious apprentice might have flown headlong into danger, driven by fear. But Kenobi can keep a cool head, even when he is churning with unease. I can sense that faintly, even through the tenuous link of a hologram. He is growing stronger in the Force every day. Part of me wonders whether Jinn is even worthy of such a Padawan…but that thought is very unbecoming, and I banish it.

"We'll find him," I assure the boy. "The Code binds us to come to the aid of any Jedi in need. Master Jinn knows this, and he will be waiting."

"Yes, master."

And why does Kenobi now look so stricken, as though my words have inspired some dreadful insight? I catch a ripple of guilt, or of suspicion, shuddering in the Force. But this is not the time for such reflections. We will sort out the details later. I end the communication and check the ship's nav functions. I will be there soon enough. And then we will see what there is to see.


	3. Chapter 3

**Exodus**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

The Feorians have not spoken to me since I was thrust down here into the dimly lit slave quarters. A slow inspection reveals that there are more than two hundred of them – adults and children – living in the most squalid conditions. All of them are fitted with a heavy electro-collar, as am I. But the physical chains are a mere formality. In their faces, and in the Force, I sense the abandonment of hope. They watch me warily as I pass among them, their gazes dropping to my boots or the hem of my cloak whenever I try to make eye contact. They too are afraid – or too cautious – to make a proper introduction.

A burly figure emerges into the gloom, flanked by four strong thugs and an old model medical droid. This must be Beobu…and now we come to the crux of the matter.

"Hold him," the slave driver orders. The Feorians shudder and draw back cringing into corners as the heavy humanoid and his droid approach. They are afraid of him. The guards lay rough hands on me, various weapons unholstered.

"Beobu, I presume." The man must look up into my face. Whatever he sees there does not please him.

"Jedi chizzk," he snorts. "Let me explain to you how security here works. First, every slave – and that includes you while you are a guest here – wears this lovely collar. I imagine you know how it works."

"I am familiar with such devices."

"I am not stupid, Jedi," he asserts, in contradiction to the plain evidence of my senses. "Yours is set at full power."

He decides to give a demonstration. When my vision clears, I find that the four guards have a firm grip on my shoulders and arms, keeping me on my knees. I wait for further information. My objective here is not, after all, immediate escape. I must determine what it is that keeps these Feorians so effectively fettered. Beobu snaps his fingers at the droid and it totters forward on creaking servos. Someone should give it an oil bath….but warlords like Marshak seldom think to maintain their inorganic servants properly. The habit of abuse extends, irrationally, to droids and other possessions which do not feel intimidation or distress. I have often noted this tendency, and I believe there is much to be learned from it. The droid extends an arm behind my back, and I relax my muscles as the micro-chip injector is pressed against my neck, near the spine. A brief burning pain, and the deed is done.

"A tracking device?" I query. Such things are standard practice on backworlds like this.

"Hah," Beobu smirks. "We have a very simple system here. The Feorians," he extends a contemptuous hand toward the slave quarters' other occupants, "Are linked in sets of five. If any one of the five moves more than three hundred meters from the others, then a signal is activated in these chips, the collars' power regulators shut off...and, well... It's a nasty death."

My heart sinks. Such cruelty. I have seen many things in my day – many which are arguably worse than this, but the drudgery of living with such constant, ever-present terror seems worse than a sudden and unexpected disaster. I think I understand some of the hopelessness in the Feorians's long faces.

"You see," Beobu continued. "Any escape attempt must be made in groups of five. And involves much risk. Especially since the Feorians do not know to whom they are linked. "

"Very clever," I comment. The method is effective, and might make things more complicated. But a Jedi sees only a setback where others might see an impasse. "I assume you have linked me to some of these people."

He laughs. "They say you Jedi are sworn to preserve innocent lives. I've linked your chip to every Feorian here. You leave – you go more than three hundred meters from any of them - and they all die with you."

"What makes you think I won't sacrifice them to save myself? What if your information is incorrect?"

"Go ahead, Jedi. Kill them all." He waits, and when I do not respond, he nods his head sagely. "I think my information is reliable."

His absurdly triumphant grin makes the Feorians cringe and withdraw even further, pressing themselves into the walls and muttering in their low, mournful voices. Beobu thinks he has scored a victory against me. I hold my tongue, knowing that the sudden surge of pleasure I feel at his statement will not show on my face. After all, I am the best sabaac player I know.

"Enough dawdling," the slave driver announces. "Time for work, you lot."

* * *

><p>I cross the klicks between our camp and Marshak's fortress at a run. There is no reason for my haste, I know, but the sprint lets me release some of my tension. I am ashamed to admit that my emotions are so unruly. I am disturbed by Qui Gon's disappearance. I know that he deliberately left me behind last night, that he is using me. I do not understand how he could have been captured so easily by Marshaak's buffoons. There is something wrong with this whole situation. If it were a sane thought, I would say that Qui Gon allowed himself to be taken deliberately. I just don't see how such madness could possibly help the Feorians he so obviously wishes to liberate.<p>

Pathetic life forms: Qui Gon's fatal weakness. The bane of my existence, so far as apprenticeship is concerned. Every time he adopts one of his lost causes, trouble ensues. If you asked my master, he would blithely agree – and then add that I am numbered in the ranks of his pet projects. The boy that nobody else would take as Padawan. I strive every day to prove this wrong. I do not want pity; I want respect. But that, too, is just bitter emotion speaking. I know better; Qui Gon more than respects me. He trusts me with his life, and pours his whole heart into my training. I owe him everything.

And so I realize that whatever mad scheme he is spinning, I will stand by him loyally, and take the consequences alongside him. The decision is made. I run my fingers over the hilts of both sabers, hanging at my side. The task is now mine. I will not fail him.

The Force is with me; as I approach the fortress, I spy a melancholy herd of Feorians trudging out the main gates and toward a small doorway built into the stony ground - a mine shaft, or an entrance to some underground storage area. Guards accompany the slaves, and a fat humanoid trails behind. The Feorians shuffle into the opening, carrying sacks and what look like odd agricultural implements. Among them strides the tall unmistakable figure of Qui Gon.

I need a distraction. Closing my eyes, I reach through the Force. One of the guards is holding a blaster, carelessly. I find the weapon's contours, its grip, its triggering mechanism. A tiny nudge, and the blaster discharges, blowing a small crater in the earth at the man's feet. Shards of rock ricochet into one of his companions. A heated exchange becomes a fist fight. The fat slave driver is hustling over to break up the fight. Nobody is looking at the dark shaft entrance.

In a flash I am through the opening, following the retreating shadows of the Feorians down a broad passage. At the end, the carved tunnel opens into a wide, shallow cave. Stacks of fungus racks line the walls. A musty scent assails my nostrils. The Force twines, warning me that the fungus is toxic, not something edible at all. I gaze through the dim light, and find Qui Gon. A shriveled Feorian is explaining something to him. He nods and walks away, casually drifting toward my place in the shadows. He draws near and bends down, pretending to be occupied with the fungus growing in a nearby rack.

"Well done, Padawan," he says in a low murmur.

"Master. Let's go. Now. I'll take care of that collar." I promised Master Windu I would do nothing, but the security here is beyond pathetic.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," he smiles. "If I move away from these people, every one of them will die. Marshaak uses microchip implants to contain his slaves."

What? This is bad. "You can't stay here," I argue. "He'll try to use you as a hostage."

"I believe that is his intention."

"Master! We can't let him do that. And this fungus is toxic for humans. Who knows whether it's safe for you to be down here -"

"I'll be fine for a few days," he assures me placidly. "That should give you enough time to find a way to rescue all these people."

My mouth must be hanging open, because his eyes gleam with humor. "It's the only way, Obi Wan. We can't remove the implants until we're off the system. The Feorians will just have to come with us."

"Master Windu is on his way," I protest. "He's coming to retrieve you."

"He'll just have to expand his objective slightly," Qui Gon replies, with satisfaction. "If he wants to extract a captive Jedi, he'll have to extract two hundred slaves as well."

I run both hands through my hair, fingers digging into my scalp. "He is not going to be happy about this, master."

"Then it is a good thing you are such an able negotiator. I trust you."

"You did this on purpose!" I hiss, my control dissolving in the face of his calm.

"I do what I must, Obi Wan. We'll discuss it later," he replies tersely. "Beobu is returning.. You'd better go."

I leave, because I have no choice. I run from the outskirts of Marshaak's fortress back to the campsite even faster than I came. There is much I do not wish to contemplate.

* * *

><p>I meet Qui Gon's apprentice at their camp. Everything is neatly packed away, and the fire smothered and scattered. Only a trained observer would guess anyone had been here. Their transport sits a short distance away, engines primed and ready for take-off. The drives hum softly on low power stand-by. The only thing missing is Master Jinn himself. The boy standing before me is agitated, but he presents an immaculately calm appearance. I nod in approval. As we grow stronger in the Force, those layers of tranquility sink deeper, from the surface to the inner heart. But proper outward conduct is a good starting point.<p>

"Were you able to determine your master's location?" I ask.

"Yes," he answers. "He is being held with Marshaak's Feorian slaves. I was able to speak with him personally."

Really? "If you so easily penetrated their security, then what's keeping Qui Gon there?"

The Padawan's shoulders straighten a little more. His hands thrust deeper into his sleeves. "Apparently Marshaak employs micro-chip tracers to contain his slaves. My master said that if he moves too far from the other slaves, they will all be automatically killed. They were fitted with electro-collars."

"I see." He needn't elaborate. I am familiar with the variations on this theme. Generally only a few slaves are linked at a time, sufficient to instill fear but not so many that the owner risks the loss of all his goods at once. "He knows that a Jedi will not sacrifice other lives."

"Yes, master."

"Master Jinn has managed to get himself very deep in poodoo this time," I growl.

The apprentice flinches. He has never heard me speak in such a fashion. To him, I am the stern Council member. Well, it's time to expand his horizons. "Obi Wan," I continue. "I grew up with Qui Gon. We were crechelings together. I know him well, despite what he may claim to the contrary. Did he do this on purpose? Tell me the truth."

Young Kenobi clenches his jaw. "Master…it would be inappropriate for me to –"

"To the hells with appropriate. I want the truth, Padawan. Now."

He is horrified, and not a little intimidated. I don't bother to disguise my displeasure or mute my Force presence. His eyes study me, wide with surprise and with a flicker of defiance. Incredible cheek. He has always had it – I remember a few instances in the past…but this is not the time to revisit old trouble.

"Qui Gon is my master!" he tells me. As though this is news, or an excuse.

"And you are defying the Jedi Council," I warn, letting my voice snap through him like a wall of ice. I see him wince again.

His breaths are deep, deliberately slow. "Master Windu. .."

"The truth," I command. He closes his eyes and shudders, wrestling defiance down. I have to admit I am impressed. That is a huge improvement in discipline.

"I believe that he did this on purpose," he admits, in a quiet tone of defeat. His eyes drop to the dusty earth.

"Look at me," I say. I have trained young Jedi before; I understand his feelings. I place a hand on his shoulder and he looks up reluctantly. "You have not betrayed your master by telling the truth," I assure him, in a much gentler tone. "All truth comes from the Force; and the Force cannot betray us. Now. You do understand what he is trying to do?"

Kenobi nods miserably. "He knows that the Order will not abandon one of its own, and that the Council is bound to send a rescue mission to retrieve him. He has managed to bind himself to the Feorians in such a way that they must also be rescued if he is to be saved. Thus, he hopes to force the Council's hand. The Code demands that the Feorians be saved, even though it also dictates that we leave them alone."

I shake my head. Impressive. "You see much."

"I play sabaac with Qui Gon."

I feel a smile tugging at my mouth. That was pretty dry wit for someone his age. But life with Qui Gon would do it to anyone. That, or drive a man insane. "Your master is abusing his position if he thinks he can manipulate the Council in such a fashion. It is inexcusable."

"I am sure he is willing to face the consequences," Kenobi says.

"I know that." Stars, do I. Qui Gon is always willing to pay the penalty. He simply does not care what the Council thinks. Someday this will be the death of him – I have foreseen it. But I won't tell his young Padawan that, at least not now. "I would be within my rights to leave him here. He has made his choice."

"The Council would abandon him? If Marshaak does not receive a ransom, he may execute him! How could the Council do something like that?"

"Are you telling me that you are wiser than a tradition extending millennia before you were born?" I keep my hand on his shoulder, exerting a little pressure.

"No, master."

At least the boy doesn't suffer from his master's arrogance. He is just reacting in outrage to something far more complicated than his young mind can fathom. And Qui Gon is his master. The two of them are more attached than is fitting, some would say. But we are all humans…and that filial relationship is a natural one. It sometimes cannot be helped, and once rooted, it cannot be easily broken.

"I would also be within my rights to order you to return with me to Coruscant. Right now, as an official command of the Jedi Council."

That does it. Kenobi's Force presence flashes with something edging on despair. He drops to one knee before me, face turned up to mine with sheer, imploring horror written on his young features. "Master," he pleads, trying to keep his voice steady as befits a Jedi. "Please. I do not wish to defy the Council. Qui Gon is your fellow Jedi and a friend. Will you not help him?"

"Are you begging, Padawan?" I can't keep the disapproval out of my voice.

He remains kneeling in the posture of humility."Please, Master. I won't leave Qui Gon. I can't do it."

I release a long breath. If Yoda were here, he would laugh at me. Probably rap my shins with his stick. I can hear the Master's words. "Fool me you do not, Mace Windu. A tarbu-crab you are. All hard outside, all soft inside." Let him laugh. For while I have no qualms about abandoning a headstrong reek like Qui Gon to his self-chosen fate, I cannot possibly throw this youngling away with the same callousness. I know that he will stay with his master, and the results will be disastrous for both. It is part of my duty as a Council member to protect the future of the Order.

"Very well," I decide. "I will stay and help you. We'll rescue Qui Gon and his blasted Feorians. But this decision rests on your shoulders. I can tell you that it is not explicitly forbidden, but it certainly goes against the spirit of many of the Order's precepts."

He nods. "I understand. I am very grateful to you, Master Windu, and I regret –"

"Save it," I cut him off. "You'll be appearing before the Council for an official inquiry when we return to Coruscant."


	4. Chapter 4

**Exodus**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

My Feorian friends have never heard of the Jedi Order. Indeed, they have never even heard of the Force – at least not under any of its traditional names. But in listening to their songs and poetry after the evening meal, I realize that their culture must at one time have been versed in such knowledge. They cannot tell me with any certitude how long they have been here, enslaved. My instincts tell me that their bondage extends far back in history, well beyond Marshaak's life span. They are so accustomed to degradation that I suspect all those here were born into subjugation, and have no idea what freedom means.

That will make it difficult to establish them again, once they are free. Perhaps the Council will have some insight into the matter. I cling to that notion; let those who wish call me a hypocrite.

Of course, the Council will not be pleased with my decision here…it is a trifle optimistic to expect enthusiastic cooperation from them in the aftermath A pity; there was a time in history – for I have read of it – when the Council was less concerned with matters of internal discipline and more committed to finding creative solutions. It was intended to harness the intuition of living sages, not impose restrictions on the Force itself. But listen to me…I sound like my old master Dooku. What would my Padawan say if he could hear me ranting like this? I can almost see his outraged expression: mouth drawn into a tight line, crease between eyebrows, eyes glittering with worry. Ah, Obi Wan... you have much to learn.

"The food pleaseth you not?" These are the words of my host, the eldest Feorian among Marshaak's slaves. He has adopted me for the time being. His Basic is antiquated – another clue about the length of his people's tenure here.

"I must be cautious," I inform him. There were bits of insect in the stew; and while a Jedi is not finicky, I am getting older. Food poisoning will not help my cause.

He hands me an extra ration of their sweet, flat bread. They make their own food over hot stones here in their quarters. Marshaak provides them with grain and water; they hunt for their proteins in the barren land above. They tell me that twice a year a medic is sent down to inject them with certain nutritional supplements. This is a common practice on slaving worlds; concentrated vitamin treatments are much cheaper than providing nutritious fare for so many.

"Who eats the fungus? That which we harvested today?"

He shakes his long head. "Not to eat, it is. Nay. The lords use it for trade….the _h__ellu_ goes out on ships and the ships come back with many things. Not for us. For the lords."

Ah. A valuable commodity, as I thought. And in such small quantities, that can only mean one thing. The galaxy's appetite for recreational drugs is insatiable. With hundreds of different bio-types to please, there is no end of variety on the black market. So Marshaak makes a tidy profit on the side trading in illegal substances. At least, they would be illegal within Republic boundaries. No doubt his trading post is well outside the furthest jurisdiction, likely in Hutt controlled space, where regular payment of tariffs is a guarantee that no questions will be asked. Or – and here I reveal my cynicism again – the Trade Federation has provided him with transport services, skimming a percentage off the top and turning a blind eye to what the product might be. The Nemoidians live for profit…and also have an addiction to fungal hallucinogens. I wonder...

"Hellu," I repeat. "It only grows here, perhaps?"

But he shrugs. Of course he has no way to know these things. His entire world is contained within the bounds of Marshaak's fortress. It doesn't really matter; it is the trading ships which interest me.

"How often do these ship arrive with goods?"

Mathematics is not their strong suit. Or perhaps they do not think of time in terms of calendars and dates. He puzzles over it for a while, and finally tells me, "One will come with the next sun. I think."

Perfect. I could not have asked for a more fortuitously timed event. The Force has never yet failed me – and I know that it is with me still. The plan is simple, and elegant. The only difficulty is that I am effectively imprisoned here, and unable to implement it without help. I need Obi Wan to see what needs to be done; if only he were here to give direct instruction. Still, we must rely on the Force in all things. There is a chance that I can reach him in meditation. The sun has set; surely he will seek the same refuge as I do.

I find a quiet corner in the slave quarters and fold myself into the traditional posture.

I will reach him, if I can.

* * *

><p>"Master Windu."<p>

It is definitely a breach of protocol, and of simple common courtesy, to disturb him when he is meditating. But I need his help - in more ways than one. I kneel on the hard earth, feeling my heart slam against my ribs and my blood rush through my veins. The rocks and dust beneath me are reassuringly solid and hard, My own meditations were…interrupted. I feel a sudden surge of gratitude that Master Windu is here. What if this had happened while I was alone?

He opens his eyes, and the glints of white at their corners are the only thing visible in the darkness, besides the duller glint of pale reflected light on his skull, and a hint of cream beneath his dark robe. He is as surprised as I am – neither of us quite knows what's come over me.

"What is it?" he asks, in his deep tone. Then he adds, "What's wrong?"

The Force speaks to Master Windu constantly. I do not think he has to reach for it; I think it presses close to him, like a fawning pet, at every moment.

I swallow. "Master, I had a vision….not like anything that I've ever experienced."

He nods. I continue. "It wasn't mine."

Now he stirs, and a fold of his cloak falls aside as he reaches out a strong dark hand to grasp my arm. "What do you mean, _not yours?"_

"I think it was Qui Gon's. I could feel him." I wish my voice did not sound so small and confused. Stars, you would think I was a five year old initiate.

He doesn't seem to notice; or perhaps he is empathetic. "He sent you a message. That's a difficult skill; your bond is very strong."

I crouch here for a moment, trying to absorb this. The message, if that's what it was, felt unpleasant – rather like an invasion. And yet it also felt distinctly of Qui Gon; it bore his signature, somehow. I am caught between relief, that I know what it was, and resentment, that my master would …well, impose upon me in such a way. But then how else is he supposed to communicate? Certainly, as Master Windu says, our Force bond is strong. When we are both calm and centered, we can almost speak to each other without words. But a detailed vision – with instructions – is something else. I wish that we might have practiced the skill beforehand.

I catch a flicker of humor from Master Windu. "Well, spit it out, Padawan. What does Master Jinn want us to do?"

The man is uncannily perceptive. He knows Qui Gon quite well, no matter how much he disapproves. "There is a ship arriving at dawn," I tell him. "A trading vessel, maybe smugglers, I don't know. It will have cargo on board – hundreds of shipping containers – a delivery for Marshaak. In the vision….I think Qui Gon wants us to use the cargo crates to smuggle the Feorians slaves out."

His dark face remains inscrutable. He passes a hand over his scalp, in a gesture which is oddly reminiscent of Master Yoda. They do spend a great deal of time together. I wonder what subtle body language Qui Gon and I might unconsciously share….except I already know. Master Bondara snapped at me two weeks ago:"Don't fold your arms at me in that you-may-think-what-you-like-but-I know-better manner. I don't need a miniature Qui Gon roaming the salles."

"That should be manageable," Master Windu decides.

"So you approve?"

"I told you, Padawan: I do not _approve_ any of this. I'm acting on my individual initiative as a Jedi to rescue your master from his latest bit of folly. The plan is _manageable."_

I can't help but shrink under his gaze. "Forgive me, master."

He sighs. "You're not the problem, Kenobi. Now let's go see about this ship. We'll need to find a good vantage point if we want to intercept them before they reach Marshaak. "

"There's a ridge of stone along the southern side of the fortress – it looks like a ruined wall. We could conceal ourselves there and get to the ship quickly. There's a clear space for landing craft on that side of the building. Everywhere else is too ragged."

"Good." Master Windu stands and strides away, dark cloak swelling behind him in long, silent billows. I jog to keep up. "It's been a long time since I've done a good old-fashioned hijacking."

I wish I could tell whether he means this to be funny or not.

* * *

><p>Jedi do not randomly assault private vessels. Even if they do belong to smugglers. And yet here I lie, stretched out on my belly like some Tusken sand raider, patiently waiting for my quarry. I can see the glow of the hull as it enters the atmosphere. In a few minutes, it will be landing, and then receiving an unwelcome boarding party. Only someone like Qui Gon Jinn could have maneuvered me into this situation. Or maybe that's not entirely accurate. I was willing to let Jinn sit and stew in his own foolishness…at least for a while. I probably would have relented and sent a team out to ransom him off this rock after a month or two. There would have been no question of removing the slaves. There would have been no question of hijacking, trickery, prison-breaking, or any of the inevitable fighting this bantha-brained plan involves. But I let myself be persuaded, and not by Jinn. No, I let young Kenobi here sway me, turn me over to the grey twilight region known as the Jinn side of the Force, where the only rule is "break all the rules."<p>

I need to stop this train of thought. It's negative, and unfair. It would be far more profitable to use the energy for something else. I think when we all return to the Temple, I'm going to make Qui Gon my private sparring partner for one whole month. Three hours a day. That's about how long it would take me to leave every inch of his obnoxious frame bruised and burning. He is a fantastic swordsman, after all. Almost as good as me. Blast. Now his apprentice is looking at me. I know my mental shields are impenetrable, but he likely enough felt some emotion there. Yes, son. I want to wallop your master within an inch of his life. Just accept it.

Yoda is quite possibly going to have my hide, and that hasn't happened in twenty years. Blast. You're an old fool, Mace. Just like Qui Gon.

"They're landing, master."

Kenobi is off and away, as silent as a colwar. I take another route down the sliding pile of rubble; my weight will shift some of the rocks he passes over without a trace. At the bottom we meet, and with a nod I give the signal. Sped by the Force, and blurred in its power, we cross the short space to the boarding ramp and roll inside, before the walkway has even touched the soft earth. Two lightsabers blaze into life, and the fighting begins.

"Kriff! It's Jedi!" one of the crewmen shouts, leveling a blaster at my head.

"There's two of 'em! Get 'em both! Marshaak's gonna kill us!"

"Aaaaaaghhh!"

Blaster fire erupts around us. I was going to order the Padawan stay behind me, cover my back, but he's already moving in a blur, rolling past my right side to take up a defensive stance, blue saber cutting a tight, fast pattern in the air. He's learned his kata well; not a single bolt gets past him. He blocks the whole passage, rebounding the deadly projectiles back into our attackers. I stand here, useless. Maybe not quite useless. There's the support structure for the ceiling. I hold up a hand, crumple the durasteel beams into a ball, flick the plastoid paneling downward. The whole roof collapses in a shower of sparks and circuitry, pinning the men beneath the panels. Kenobi almost treads on my boot when he leaps backward.

"Master!" he exclaims.

I grin. You have much to learn, young one. You have learned to use the Force, but just wait until you learn to let the Force use _you._ Groans and pained mutterings reach my ears, from under the collapsed ceiling.

"Surrender your weapons and you will be spared," I command. The captives whimper and moan and curse, agreeing to the terms. Their fear is palpable.

I feel Kenobi's startled gaze slide off me. I will have to instruct him in the difference between a real and a perceived threat. I can easily imagine him in the future, trying to reason with a prisoner – all cultured euphemism and elegant tones. I can almost hear his voice: …_T__here's no reason we can't be civilized about this. Why don't you_ _simply surrender and spare us all a great deal of fuss_? No scum bag like these smugglers is ever going to listen to that sort of ultimatum. They'll just refuse and end up missing arms or worse. It can all be avoided by speaking their own dialect – the language of fear and coercion.

I lift the panelling while the Padawan stands guard, saber ready. Just the sound of its blade thrumming in the cool recycled air is enough to subdue the smugglers. They weren't particularly fierce to begin with – these fellows must rely on cunning and bribery to ply their trade. They aren't used to violent confrontations.

"What do you want? We ain't got nothing illegal on board – just delivering goods to Marshaak. And he don't want no trouble with Jedi either." This speech made by the leader or captain, all the while looking sideways at Kenobi's humming blue saber blade.

"You are mercenaries," I guess.

The pathetic man eagerly affirms this. "We don't take sides. We got no argument with the Jedi or the Republic. Just lookin' to make an honest living."

"Good," I answer evenly. "Forget your current employment. We'd like to contract your services."

I can't really say who is more stunned by this declaration: the smuggler, or Jinn's Padawan. The poor captain is still quaking before me, wringing his hands, hoping to get out of this little escapade alive, and not incarcerated. Kenobi, on the other hand, is quickly recovering from the initial jolt, and warming to the idea. He obviously has some experience in underhanded dealings, and derives amusement from it. Something else for me to chastise Qui Gon about.

"Uh…transport services?" the captain nervously shifts his feet about. His blaster lies on the floor. The rest of the crew are crawling out from beneath the plastoid panels, nursing injuries and watching this conversation unfold with veiled expressions. "Look…the cargo we got on board ain't ours. It belongs to Marshaak. We still gotta deliver it."

"That's all right," Kenobi pipes up. "We just want the empty boxes."

The smuggler must have missed the smirk. Most people do – the boy almost has it under control, after all these years. But I don't miss it. The smuggler is staring at the Padawan like he might be a little touched in the head. And a disturbed teen holding a deadly weapon is an unsettling sight. He shuffles away slightly, starting to perspire.

"The empty crates and transport back to Coruscant, no questions asked," I amend.

"Marshaak has automated security," the smuggler shakes his head. "We're not leaving without his authorization."

"I'll see to that," I respond. One more obstacle. I am keeping count, although it is not the Jedi way.

The man nods and swallows. "You Jedi able to meet my fee schedule?" he smiles hopefully.

"I'm sure adequate payment can be arranged. The Republic is very interested in the cargo we will be transporting. "

"Dataries?" the smuggler asks hopefully. "Right then. A pleasure to do business with you, master Jedi." He extends his hand for the customary handshake. I ignore it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Exodus**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

"Up, all of you! Shipment's here – needs to be unloaded, you lazy slobs!"

The slave driver Beobu's harsh taunts and the threat of the electro-collars prod the sleeping Feorains into motion. I blend in among them, adjusting my gait and posture to match theirs. The Force stirs…it is but a matter of time. If the slaves here understood what this day might mean for them, they might walk with less sluggish steps, hold their heads higher. But they can only envision endless other days like this one. They cannot feel what I do – that shift in the Force which presages change and risk. That giddying abyss of possibility sliding close to the surface of reality, until the present moment is a translucent shell over churning depths. In such a moment, every story is yet to be written. The Force favors the bold. I know that my apprentice received the message; I dearly hope that he understood it. It was unkind to attempt an induced vision like that, without ever having prepared him. But he is strong in the Force, and naturally courageous. I can rely on him.

"Here – all these crates need to be unloaded in the warehouses. Return the empties to the hull. Move, move, you slagging wretches, or you'll feel this."

Beobu brandishes the collar-transmitter in one hand, like an invisible whip. The Feorians moan and move faster, filing up the boarding ramp of the smuggler's ship. The smugglers themselves stand guard over the crates, lounging idly against the bulkheads while the slaves set about the hard task of moving the crates onto hover palettes. I help where I am able, lifting the heavy containers with the Force, shifting them into place as discreetly as I can. Our observers scoff and occasionally fling an insult or two.

"You there," one of the smugglers addresses me. The Force eddies around him, as smoothly as a stream curves about a stone, leaving a bright trail.

"Aren't you a little young for a smuggler's life?" I ask under my breath. The smuggler swaggers forward, under pretense of examining the manifest on the crate I handle.

"Aren't you a little decrepit for manual labor?" the so-called smuggler drawls in a perfect Core world accent.

I shove the crate onto the palette with brute muscle. "You got my message."

"Yes. How many will I have to…deal with?"

His voice is casual, light, but I sense the tension beneath the off-handed words. He has seen enough of life to know that the best laid plan can erupt into violence. And he has grasped that the Feorians are bound by many chains. There is little chance we will escape Marshaak's fortress without causing at least one death. He resents me for it; nobody takes the admonition to respect life more seriously than my apprentice.

"Beobu for certain," I tell him, accepting his displeasure. "The electro-collar controls will have to be disabled. The transmitter is on his belt."

"Who else?"

I glance down the boarding ramp. "Whomever Marshak is foolish enough to send after you. It would be best if his security cannon were immobilized. We may not get off-planet unless they are out of commission."

Master Windu will have to work on that," he replies quietly. "How many slaves are there altogether?"

"Two hundred thirteen. And me."

He nods. "When they return the empty crates, pack them inside. I'll deal with Beobu."

The last of the Feorians are exiting. I put my shoulder against the crate, starting to nudge it in the direction of the hatchway. "You are doing well," I tell him. "I'm proud."

If the praise warms him, there is no sign of it. I see his mouth tighten a little, that familiar glint on his eye. Ah…I will not be suffering a backlash from the Council alone. He feels manipulated, and that sparks a flare of hurt and defiance. He is obedient, always, but I can see that this is predicated on his pride. Not bad pride – there is a good kind, too, the sort he manifests in every detail of training. His cooperation is never mindless – it is always an expression of trust. And by not telling him of this plan before I acted, I robbed him of the chance to demonstrate his loyalty. But, my stubborn young apprentice, you are not thinking as I do. I know how angry the Council will be with me. It is better for you to be victim than accomplice to my felonies.

"This hasn't succeeded yet," he reminds me, as a parting shot.

I push the crate into the glimmering sunlight, leaving our veiled conversation half-finished. There is much more to be said, but it will have to wait. There is so much more to the life of a Jedi than the Code and the Council's wishes. There is compassion. I have no regret at pushing Obi Wan, or Mace, past their comfortable boundaries. Young or old, we are all able to learn from the Living Force. These Feorians deserve better, and we are in a position to change their circumstances. A Jedi has no possessions. In my mind, this includes not only material things or familial attachments, but also the conventions of the Order. Anything which is repeated too many times becomes ossified, and then decays – no longer a wisdom giving flame but a hard lump of coal, something which can be grasped and possessed and clung to. If there is one thing I wish I could teach my Padawan, it is this: that he can, in the ultimate judgment, even let go of what he thinks is written in stone for the Jedi. There is another, surer guide: The Force itself. He is of an age…when we return to the Temple, there will be new lessons to be taught.

"Move it, you worthless beanpole!" Beobu's impatient shout brings me back to the present moment. Where my focus belongs.

* * *

><p>The afternoons on this world take far too long. It's as though the planet slows in its revolution, dragging the hot sticky hours on and on toward an infinitely distant sunset. The Feorians are dragging, too. The task of unloading all this cargo has taken them all day. I am told by the smugglers – who have suddenly become our best friends, eager to impress and inform – that this one shipment represents Marshaak's share of profit from a single hellu fungus harvest. The crates contain electronic equipment, fuel, exotic foods, and luxury items, as well as a few illegal weapons.<p>

The captain is at my elbow now. I can feel his curiosity and nervous tension. They leave a strong taste in the Force, like the stench of bacci smoke which clings to the fibers of his clothing.

"So…ah…what happens next?" he asks.

"Remove your men from the cargo bay and ready the ship for departure. On my signal, take off. It shouldn't be long now."

He shifts, and pops a hard candy into his mouth. I can smell the pungent menthol. "With a bunch of empty crates?" he says. "Thought you had something to ship off world."

"We do."

He doesn't know what to make of me. I find that amusing. So many beings in the galaxy judge by appearances. I have to admit that in my case, the implications can be humiliating. I am almost never assessed as a threat until it comes down to a combat situation. Qui Gon always instills a certain awe, or at least caution. It has to do with his height, and something in his face. I, on the other hand, frequently evoke nothing more than mild interest or even pity, as one feels for a stray pup or a child with skinned knees. And time has not particularly improved matters. I think it might be the dimples. As soon as I reach Knighthood, I will grow a beard and I will never shave it off. A Jedi has his dignity to consider.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Jedi."

"I do."

I rather wish I didn't, thank you so much. I watch as the Feorians begin to shuffle back into hold, pushing the emptied cargo boxes before them. Now is the time, and there is no purpose in reflecting further on the implications of our actions. I nod to the smuggler, and he wheels about, summoning his men to follow him. The slaves are alone in the cargo hold, slowly milling about, replacing the boxes against the far walls. It is time for me to deal with Beobu. My shoulder brushes against Qui Gon's as we pass on the ramp. _Quickly_, I urge him through the Force.. _Quickly_.

Beobu lurks at the bottom of the ramp. Six others loiter nearby – the hired bullies who keep the slaves in line. There is little need; the Feorians are despairingly cooperative, and Beobu holds the cruel transmitter in his hand. Why they have never thought to overpower him and take it….how can people reach such a condition of acceptance? In their situation, I am certain I would fight long and hard and with every scrap of cunning and strength I possess. But I was not born into slavery. Maybe liberty is something which must be tasted to be desired.

I look at the flabby skin hanging over Beobu's thick leather belts. His eyes are small and dark, set in a sun-reddened face. He is a minor servant of the warlord – though he wields immense power over the slaves, he is little better than a slave himself. I decide to do this the easy way.

"You want to go inside now," I suggest. The Force surges, washing over him. I feel his mind sway a little. But not enough. "You need a break."

He squints at me. "I ..don't need a rest," he insists. "Get lost, smuggler."

Maybe something different. "Oh well," I shrug and laugh. "We left a little…extra…inside the warehouse there. For you and your men, eh? Captain's compliments. We all know working for Marshaak isn't easy."

He runs a pink tongue over his chapped lips. "Extra?" he says hopefully.

I shrug and scuff at the dust with one boot. "I don't know what exactly. Captain says I'm too young for it….but I daresay you won't want to miss it. Why don't you go enjoy? These slaves are busy with the boxes."

And once again, pure human greed and vice work wonders where even the Force cannot avail. He considers the proposal for another long minute and then he whistles to the men and jogs off in the direction of the warehouse, eager to find the crate of Corellian brandy which Qui Gon discovered and opened earlier.

"Beobu!" I call after him. "Why don't you leave that transmitter? In case one of them gets out of hand?"

He stops and stares at me. For a horrible moment I think I've gone too far, but his eagerness to reach the prize outweighs his prudence. Wordlessly he hands the device to me, with a broad wink. And then he ambles away again, heavy body rolling along at a slow jog as he heads for the warehouse doors. I flip the panel over in my hands, find the power cell compartment, pry it open. Out comes the charge pack. I have a knife inside my boot – some things are not most easily done with a lightsaber. It takes a moment's work to sever a few circuits, destroy the transceiver. I replace the back panel, and wait. A steady trickle of Feorians ascends the boarding ramp, but none comes back from the ship's hold. Minutes drag by, stretching into an hour. Soon the last threesome is tottering up into the hold…how much longer do we have?

"Ho!" A drunken Beobu almost collides with me. His breath is rank with alcohol, and he wobbles on his feet. He must have laid into the stolen cargo with an appetite. "How's it going?"

I hand over the transmitter, and he tucks it into his belt with unsteady fingers. "The slaves finished, and I sent them back to their quarters," I inform him, bringing the Force to bear on his wavering mind. Intoxicated, he is as malleable as clay. "You don't need to worry about them. Go enjoy yourself."

"Good lad," he mumbles, slapping me on the back. He wheels about, and staggers his way toward the warehouse.

When he is gone, I slip my comlink out of a pocket. We are ready to go…if Master Windu has finished sabotaging Marshaak's security.

* * *

><p>How did I let Kenobi talk me into this? I'm the one with seniority – a lot of it. I should be making the calls here. On the other hand, I'm the one with all the experience sabotaging automated security systems. When I asked him how many heavy artillery cannon he had taken out in the course of his short life, he said, "Three." I've done a grip more than that, young one. On the other hand, I don't remember the destruction of heavy weaponry being included in <em>any<em> mission reports filed by the Jinn/Kenobi team. Another little point to bring up in what I hope will be a long and enlightening discussion with Qui Gon.

In the meanwhile, I have work to do. Marshaak must have contracted with the Tech Union or someone equally expensive to get these cannon installed. They're nice bits of work – completely automated to blow any arriving or departing ship out of the sky unless the flight pattern has been remotely coded in by Marshak. Handy, if you happen to be a crimelord with a paranoid personality disorder. Such things are illegal in Republic space but we are far outside Republic boundaries now. We only sent a Jedi team this far in the fist place in order to extradite a much-wanted criminal. The local police don't even recognize Jedi authority out here, which might be a problem if we accidentally encounter peacekeepers. I'm not happy about the decision to co-opt smugglers into our escape plans.

The first cannon is heavily shielded, so I can't simply hack off the coupling unit and burn the circuits out. This will have to be done the old fashioned way. I can sense the invisible security lasers outlining a large perimeter. I lift a stone using the Force and trigger the nearest line. Immediately the lower level defenses come online and a smaller blast cannon zips a few bolts in the direction of the disturbance. Low power compared to what the actual guns can muster – but plenty of power to overload the shields.

I hate traps like this. I always have, even as a youngling I remember objecting vociferously when we were posed exercises involving automatic triggers. It's the one thing I share with Qui Gon Jinn: we would both rather deal with living beings, with the unpredictable vagaries of organic opponents. The dejarik board is not for us; we prefer sabaac, where there is psychology involved in play. Pure strategy divorced from all sentience is a hollow realm, for droids and computers, not Jedi masters.

That doesn't mean I'm not good at this kind of thing. It's just such a dry academic discipline. No real pleasure to be had from it. I stride forward, set off the line with my right boot, and take the resultant bolt on my saber blade, rebounding it into the shields. A downswing strikes the line again, and brings another shot precisely back at my blade. This one I angle just a little higher, and the third and the fourth and the fifth, and so on. I guess whoever designed this assumed that no living thing crossing it could catch and redirect a series of a dozen or so plasma bolts aimed directly at point blank range.

Bad assumption. In a moment, the shields overload and short out, allowing me access to the cannon housing. I slash open the main circuit boards, fry the innards, and then jump up under the actual gun barrel. It's mounted on an enormous hydraulic gimble. It takes a bit of effort, but a few well placed cuts in the support structure, and I'm fairly certain this gun will malfunction upon firing.

As I jog to the second cannon, set a half-klick away from the first at the other corner of Marshak's fortress boundaries, I see the smuggler's ship lift off and start gliding toward my position on repulsors and maybe half or one-third thrusters. The smugglers are better pilots than I give them credit for – that's way too fast for such a low altitude flight. The boarding ramp is open, too, so I take the hint. Apparently we're leaving now. As the shadow of the huge hull crosses over me, I leap up and somersault into the main hold, pulling the ramp shut with a small nudge of the Force.

There stands Qui Gon Jinn, as nonchalant as you please, slave collar and all. He looks like a gundark that swallowed a canariss, and I feel my brows come together of their own accord.

"One cannon's still operational," I tell him, shoving past to the cockpit. "It's gonna be a rough ride."


	6. Chapter 6

**Exodus**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

I follow Mace into the cockpit. There is little more I can do for the Feorians – it is best that they remain hidden in the storage crates until we have crossed back into Republic space. Random searches and tariff or customs inspections are common in this sector, and the officials will be unlikely to waive the formalities in light of our Jedi status. Indeed, that might compromise us further. These are dark times, promising only to grow darker.

We halt in the hatchway. Obi Wan is piloting, still wearing his affected smuggler's garb. I can read him like an open holo-book. He hates flying, despite his considerable skill, and as a result his mental shields are down. He is at the moment: concerned that a cannon will blow us all to smithereens; profoundly annoyed at me for getting us all into this mess; worried about what the Council will do to the pair of us when we return; suspicious that the Feorians are just another group of Pathetic Life Forms which have caught my irrational fancy; and secretly pleased about the smuggler's costume. He takes ironic delight in being costumed as a scalawag.

Silly boy. The ship makes a violent turn as he lunges at the helm, and the energy blast that would have hammered our hull explodes into the ground a few meters off the starboard bow.

"Kriff!" one of the smugglers curses. "Marshaks' firing on us!"

"There are only two cannon, and one is compromised," Mace soothes. His words, of course, are only comforting to another Jedi. The smugglers hang on to the chairs and console edges as Obi Wan swoops and dives and speeds through a barrel roll, narrowly avoiding destruction.

"Blast it…I can't rise above fifty meters," Obi Wan complains. He sounds bored, petulant, but I know better. The danger is quite real, and this smuggler's ship is swift but no star-fighter. We can't out-speed a plasma ray.

"Head for the other cannon," Mace advises.

"Are you vaping nuts?" another passenger shrieks at him.

"No." The smuggler shuts her mouth with a snap. Mace has that effect on females. How many times did I tell him, when we were younger, that he needed to improve his diplomatic skills with the fairer sex? Naturally he didn't listen. It's a mercy he's a Jedi, really.

Obi Wan banks hard left, throwing everyone except Mace and me against the bulkheads. He accelerates hard into the turn, dodging another blast and heading straight for the second cannon, the sabotaged one.

"You ruin this ship, you're payin' for it, honey! " the same woman screams at him.

"Do you accept installment plans?" Obi Wan responds, absolutely dead pan. That's my boy. The worse the situation, the worse his joke.

"Only if you're the down-payment, sweetheart," she snips back, staggering forward to the copilot's chair and flashing him a lecherous smile which he doesn't acknowledge. Quite in contrast to Mace, my Padawan needs some lessons in repelling hostile boarders of the fair variety.

We're nearly upon the second cannon now; it looms large in the forward viewport, and begins leveling its barrel at us. The warning in the Force is like a flash of heat; all three of us – Obi Wan, Mace, and I – stiffen and suck in a breath. Obi Wan throws the poor ship into a bolt-rattling climb, and the cannon below us sponateously explodes. It's counterpart fires at the same moment, and reads the colossal fireball as a hit. We climb, and climb, unimpeded…far into the thinning atmosphere.

"Okay, lay off speed, we're through!" the captain of the ship grunts. "Get outta my seat, youngster."

Obi Wan relinquishes the controls with a shrug of relief or indifference – the two are close enough to be indistinguishable in him sometimes – and walks toward me out of sheerest habit. I feel him catch himself in mid-stride and settle for a position a few paces away, leaning against the rear bulkhead. So….

"You had best see to the Feorians," he orders me in a highly inappropriate tone of command and disdain. "They're sure to be panicked after that run."

I would like right at this moment to seize him by the scruff of his impudent neck and issue a stern reminder about who is the master and who is the apprentice here…but such actions are highly unworthy. Besides, you can feel that thought, can't you, my very young Padawan? Color all you like. The discussion has only been postponed. For now, I'll go tend to those pathetic life forms for which you have such disdain.

The cargo hold is full of shrieking, moaning boxes. It takes a very sustained Force-suggestion of calm and safety to bring their rampaging emotions under control. When I promised them escape and freedom earlier today, they barely comprehended what I meant. That above all else grieves me – that any people should have known enslavement for so long that they have forgotten the very meaning of freedom. If that is not full justification of my actions, then nothing is. There can be few other such crimes calling to the very heavens for reparation. I will not be the one to ignore that plea.

Now what? Our ship's drives have come to a near standstill. Ah…perhaps a mandatory customs inspection. The local system's law enforcement has decided to board our vessel. This could prove difficult – more troublesome than the cannon we barely escaped. The discovery of two hundred escaped slaves would mean a disastrous end to our journey, and possible arrest. The resultant diplomatic nightmare would be one that even I might not be able to live down. I hear the release of pressure valves, signifying that the boarding party has linked to our ships' docking hatch. I draw in a deep breath and reach for the Living Force. Let us hope my Padawan is up to the task of defying the police.

* * *

><p>I should not have addressed Qui Gon in such a manner. Stars! I sounded as though he were the errant Padawan, and I the master. He makes things so difficult sometimes – is it a special test the Force has sent me, to see whether I am made of sterner stuff than the rest of the galaxy? Could there not perhaps be another way of doing this, I wonder. I implore. But no answer do I receive. And there is no time for one, either. A local police force has decided to board our ship for a mandatory customs inspection. I can feel their suspicion, like a slime trail across murky glass. It makes the Force turgid, thick. We are in trouble unless I think quickly. We have two hundred escaped slaves in our hold. And my shipmates are illegal smugglers. To the police here, I am nothing but a criminal in the company of other criminals.<p>

I look to Master Windu for guidance. He holds up one hand in the signal for "deception." He prefers we weasel our way out of this by trickery rather than risking combat. He will play along with whatever I do. Well, that's nice. I just wish I knew what in the name of the Force I'm going to do.

But here they are already – a half dozen unformed and armed men, storming in through the connecting passageway as though they own the ship. I step forward to greet them, hoping the smugglers will have the intelligence to let me do the talking.

"Who's in charge here?" the police lieutenant demands.

"I am."

He looks at me dubiously, and grins in a nasty way. These are the upholders of law? I would say rather petty bullies and thugs. Qui Gon would scoff and tell me I have much to learn. His contempt for politicians can sometimes extend to all established authority figures and institutions.

"What's the cargo you're carrying?" the man asks.

I summon the Force and press against his mind. "Nothing of importance," I answer lightly. "You don't need to inspect it. We're exempt from that requirement."

He squints for a moment, fuzzily. "We don't need to inspect it," he mumbles.

"We need to see their manifest," one of his comrades protests. "It's procedure."

_Blast procedure!_ "That isn't necessary," I insist, pushing harder.

"Sir, we have to fill out the paperwork," another one of them points out.

"There is no paperwork," I command, letting the compulsion flow through my own mind, channeling it into them. I half believe it myself. What paperwork?

"There's no paperwork, you half-wit nosski!" the first officer snarls at his subordinates. I feel Master Windu behind me, through the Force. He is gently nudging me, _Don't overdo it._ I'm trying, master. There's six of them, in case you hadn't noticed.

The mind trick carries us only so far forward. Instead of deciding to depart and leave us alone, the stubborn lieutenant simply latches onto the next object of suspicion.

"Don't I know your ugly mug from somewhere?" he growls, staring at the captain of our smuggling friends. "Like a Wanted holo?"

"You're mistaken," I suggest, but my tenuous sway over their minds has slipped. Real recognition has flooded their awareness. Apparently the smugglers are well-known criminals in this sector.

"No – and who in the hells are you?" the peace officer demands of Master Windu.

Wihtout missing a beat, he answers. "I am the Galactic Senatorial Ambassador from Tarchis. And these men are attempting to kidnap me."

Thump. I think that was my heart attempting to escape my chest. What? What did he just say? I feel like the deck just shifted beneath my feet. The police officer's face is rapturous with delight; he's caught us red-handed in a serious crime. Master Windu's face is totally impassive. His eyes flick to me for the briefest of seconds. My turn. Now what? Time slows – the police are in the act of reaching for their weapons. I must act.

"Stop!" I order. Before I can second guess myself, I have my lightsaber activated and held against Master Windu's throat. I seize his arms in a fierce grip, which he does not resist.

The men freeze, and the smugglers behind us freeze.

"Back away, detach your ship and stand off our hull without opening fire," I continue. "Or the ambassador dies."

The lieutenant looks doubtful. He has probably never been in a hostage negotiation crisis before.

"Please!" Master Windu wails in a pathetic wavering tone. I grip him tighter, threatening.

Thank the Force that the peacekeepers here do not recognize my weapon. All I sense from them is fear and confusion. They raise their hands in a gesture of peace and slowly back away, down the adjoining corridor. As soon as the pressure hatch has been resealed, I deactivate my saber.

"Very inventive." Master Windu remarks, grinning down on me. "I'll be sure to give a detailed recommendation of your actions to the Council."

Again, I wish I knew whether he means this to be funny or not. To the list of my accomplishments during this mission is now added: held Senior Council member hostage at lightsaber point. Circumstances notwithstanding, it is not something I wish public recognition for.

"We need to get going," Master Windu reminds us all.. "As soon as we leave, they will put through a transmisson to Tarchis and a warrant for this ship. The sooner we reach Republic space, the better."

"What about us?" The smuggler captain throws up his hands in annoyance. "We'll never be able to work in this sector again!"

"I suggest a career change," I tell him.

"I suggest an attitude change," he sneers back at me under his breath. I'm in no mood to argue. Frankly, I simply can't wait for this mission to be over.

* * *

><p>Only a few hours outside Republic space now. A few calls to the right people, and we have been granted clearance to land on Apsolon Beta, a world which hosts several refugee camps under the aegis of the Republic Relief Corps. The smuggler's payment will have to come directly out of the Order's coffers. I will meditate on a way to replace the misspent funds. Qui Gon Jinn is not getting away with his characteristic hijinks – not this time.<p>

The smugglers are happy to keep us on course; I have closeted myself in one of the two passenger cabins crammed behind the port-side stabilizer array, low-roofed sleeping quarters with one wall curving alarmingly low, at least for a tall man like myself. I stretch out on the somewhat moldy bunk mat. But the Force is disturbed.

I can tell Jinn and his apprentice are having it out in the next cabin over. And the bulkheads are lamentably thin; I can hear their voices quite distinctly, though I had no intention of eavesdropping. If this were the Temple, I would immediately withdraw to another spot. But this isn't the Jedi Temple, is it? I feel an unbecoming smile of amusement creep over my face as their little discussion unfolds. The Force is hot with barely repressed emotion.

"You deceived me, and you used me. Why shouldn't I be displeased?" Kenobi's voice carries through the flimsy plastoid easily. So the boy does raise his voice to Qui Gon now and then. Good for him.

The old rogue's answer is harder to make out; his tones are lower, and muffled somewhat by the wall. But I catch the end of it. "…for the sake of innocents who needed our help."

"We can't break the Code and defy the Council every time we stumble across a pathetic life form, master!" I chuckle silently at the outrage spiking in the Padawan's voice.

"You'll end up liking these pathetic life forms, Obi Wan. You always do."

There is a silence, in which resentment struggles to break free of the rhetorical twist. I count to ten, and grin as the Padawan explodes, his renewed burst of annoyance shimmering in the Force. "I fail to see what that has to do with this!" he shouts, voice cracking.

Jinn's answering murmur is too low to hear, a sign that his smug complacency has been shattered. It doesn't matter what he said, though – I'm fairly sure his apprentice cut him off in mid-sentence.

"No, master, no! You manipulated me into cooperating with this. Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me what you were planning?"

"Trust?" Oh, ho. Now Jinn has his voice raised, his soft tones sharpened by genuine distress. "This is not matter of trust, Padawan. You misrepresent me. What would you have done had I told you my plan in advance? Tried to stop me?"

The Force seems to flash-freeze. They've hurt each other's feelings now. Not that it matters in the life of a Jedi, at least on the official record.

Something pounds into the wall between our two cabins. A fist? Or some small object thrown with violence against the smooth surface? I hear Jinn bark out some reprimand, and a nasty, snarling response from the young one. Just wait till Yoda hears about this.

"I would have helped you," Kenobi insists.

"I know." Jinn's voice is soft again, tired. I can barely distinguish the words. "You would have made yourself willing partner to my defiance. And if there is one thing I do not wish to bequesth to you, Padawan, it is that."

A short pause, as of surprise. The Padawan says something else, too quietly for me to make out.

"I am sorry the vision caught you unawares. I had no other means of communicating with you. And you did splendidly."

Another murmured reply. One of them is pacing up and down the small cabin's aisle. I can make out the gentle thump of footfalls against the hard deck. I really ought not to be listening, so I rise and wave open the door to my cramped refuge. There must be some other nook or cranny in which to stow myself for a few hours.. But as the Force would have it, no sooner do I duck beneath the low doorframe of my cabin, than the adjacent door also sweeps open, and a silently fuming Padawan nearly bowls me over in his haste to be down the corridor and away. I bar his path with one arm and he comes to an abrupt halt.

"Pardon me, master."

"Not so fast." I linger in the passageway, watching Kenobi watch me. Oh, he's on the edge of control, all right. The spectacle is almost amusing – but I have an official role to play, no right to the luxury of idle enjoyment at Jinn's expense. "I take it you will wish to make a private and confidential addendum to the mission report?" That's quite the invitation – I'm as much as offering him the chance to officially censure Qui Gon himself.

He looks up at me, the Force sizzling with a rare displeasure aimed at the Jedi master in the next cabin, and replies with perfect civility. "Of course not, master. " And he means it too. I nod, and let him go, shaking my head as he sweeps past me. Damn it to the hells, Qui Gon. You do _not_ deserve such a Padawan.

And here comes the crafty old barve himself, poking his grizzled mane around the edge of the door, watching his apprentice disappear through the forward hatchway with a look of mingled admiration and …remorse. He actually feels sorry for what he's done? "You don't deserve such loyalty," I scold him.

He leans against the frame of the open door, and casts a rueful glance in my direction. "I know, Mace. I know," he sighs.

And what can I say to that? It's time I found some place to meditate.


	7. Chapter 7

**Exodus**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

I had imagined something better than this. Here, on Apsolon Beta, a throwaway planet in the Mid Rim, the Republic's many refugee groups are given temporary shelter from the storms and squalls which drove them to these metaphorical shores. Needless to say, the accommodations are not striking. At least my Feorians have been given their own camp – a rude compound, albeit one with no gate and no fence, filled with pre-fab bungalows and a few public buildings for eating and bathing. I should not say "my" Feorians. These people now belong to no one.

They are happy, I tell myself. They are happier, even if they do not yet know it. Freedom is better than slavery, even if it brings with it great burdens and challenges. How many years…how many _generations_ before these people fully integrate into society? Will they ever? I am told a commission has been established to find them a permanent home, and to research and cultivate the preservation of their extinct culture. Their not-so-extinct culture. The Feorians do not understand any of this. Many of them still think that we have simply bought them and that they have been transferred to another owner. There is much still to be done – far more than one man, or one lifetime, can accomplish.

But these melancholy thoughts are distracting me. And here comes the medic whom I have been avoiding all afternoon.

"Master Jinn!" he calls out, hurrying forward with two assistants in tow.

I bow. Caught. There is nothing to do but admit defeat. This fellow and his med team have spent the greater part of the last four days locating and removing the slaving implants from each and every one of the Feorians along with the linked electrocollars. It is a tricky procedure – the chips are also rigged for self-destruction in case of tampering and pose a considerable danger . I have declined to have my own chip removed until all of these innocents are cleared from the threat. I took Beobu at his word; and the team here has honored my request. Of course the delay has also meant four days spent here in camp with the Feorians. Mace returned to Coruscant to deliver a Council report, damn him.

And Obi Wan elected to stay here, by my side, among the "pathetic life forms." He loathed the idea, but he chose it freely for my sake. His anger at me is incandescent, a lovely sharp ire like a glow-moth carving across a night sky. If anger were not a path to the Dark Side, I would never apologize. I might let him remain angry indefinitely... His wit is sharper, his saber skills deadlier, his very movement more elegantly powerful when he is angry. But this is not the Jedi way.

I follow the medic to the mobile surgery unit they have set up on the outskirts of the camp.

"It's between the base of my neck and the right shoulder blade," I inform the surgical assistant, a thin spindly droid with an emotionless face plate. Whoever thought droids were a good idea in the healing arts, I know not. But he was a fool.

"Affirmative," the thing tells me, as though surprised that I know this. "This procedure is delicate, Master Jedi. It would be most unfortunate were the device to be triggered during extraction. I recommend sedation during the procedure."

_Hells, no._

"Master."

Oh, so he's found me. Amusement at my expense is rapidly obscuring the layers of anger and resentment, luminous clouds veiling that hot flare of vexation and hurt. And I can feel a burgeoning affection for the Feorians, too. I told him – he always ends up liking the pathetic life forms. It just takes a period of adjustment.

"Do you wish me to stay and hold your hand?" my apprentice smirks.

_Impudent brat_, I think. I know he heard it through our bond – that barely concealed smile betrays it. He has refused to discuss the mission any further, beyond that one explosive confrontation on the smuggler's ship. I know that the silence will last until the Council has thoroughly chewed us up and spit us out again. Until then, I am grateful for this momentary respite, a moment of familiar humor.

"I think I can manage, Padawan."

"You'd better make it a double dose," he advises the medic. "He's a handful."

I'm a handful? I only did what I had to do…that's' all I've ever done. Two hundred lives are worth a little trouble and a tongue-lashing. I will him to see it, to understand. Compassion trumps all- otherwise there is no point in being a Jedi, Code or no Code, Council or no Council. For a moment, before the blasted drugs begin to take effect, I glimpse Obi Wan's face. He is still angry, yes…but there is something more there now.. He is also pensive, soberly weighing loyalty and intellect against harsh experience and personal feelings. I respect the struggle – but I know which will win in the end. And that is enough. I feel content.

* * *

><p>So here they are at last, standing before the Council. Stars know why it took four solid days to depart from Apsolon Beta. Some complication with the slaving implants, I'm told. No matter. We've had plenty of time to debate and discuss the outcome of Qui Gon's latest indiscretion. The Council has already come to a decision. All that remains to be heard is the other side of the story.<p>

"Why did you not return to Coruscant immediately upon releasing the bounty hunter into custody?" I ask Qui Gon.

"The Force told me I was still needed," he replies, as serenely self-confident as though I had asked _why did you eat_ and he had answered _because I was hungry_.

"Padawan," I continue. "What happened after the mission was finished?"

Kenobi lets out a long sigh of resignation and glances sideways at Qui Gon. Who knows what passes between them silently. "Master Jinn disappeared from camp early that morning. I woke and tracked him to a location a few klicks distant, where I discovered evidence of a brief struggle. Concluding that he had been captured by Marshaak's forces, I called for assistance. Master Windu responded," he recites carefully.

"Hm," Yoda grunts. "Woke, you say. Sensed not your master's peril, did you, until too late?"

Kenobi flushes. He's got to learn to control that – it gives away too much. "I believe I was quite deeply asleep," he says tightly.

Yoda purses his lips. "Under Force compulsion?"

The Padawan's back stiffens. "Yes, master."

"I see." My turn to strike. Qui Gon is disgruntled. He would rather answer the questions himself. Too bad. "And what did you believe the correct course of action to be?"

This doesn't pose such a risk. "I knew the Council would immediately send aid. An imprisoned Jedi is always a top priority. Master Windu arrived to help rescue Master Jinn."

"And the Feroians?" Ki Adi gently prods.

"Unfortunately, they had been linked to Master Jinn with a slaving device. In order to rescue him, it was necessary to remove all the slaves from Marshaak's fortress. To attempt otherwise would have been imprudent and endangered lives."

"How convenient," Depa murmurs. I catch her eye. She always knows exactly what I'm thinking.

"Yes, master," Kenobi agrees, clearly uncomfortable. He glances sideways again, but Qui Gon is interested in some detail in the distant landscape outside the panoramic windows.

"So, you would say that everyone involved acted precisely according to the Code and in the only manner possible to effect a facile and peaceful solution?" Ki Adi urges.

Kenobi hesitates. Jedi do not lie.

"Well?" Yoda prompts.

"The results of our actions were all good and worthy of the Jedi, " the young man ventures at last. "I cannot find fault in the outcome. Master Jinn was rescued, and the Feorians ended up free of slavery and re-established under Republic sponsorship."

But Ki Adi is not to be outdone by a mere lad. "I asked whether in your judgement there was _no other_ course of action open to you?"

Kenobi would be squirming if he weren't a Jedi. I sense a distinct ripple of pleasure from my fellow Councilors. Qui Gons' face is a stony, cold mask. He's intensely furious that we have chosen to interrogate his Padawan rather than him.

"The only other choice would be to abandon my master," the boy states flatly. "That is unacceptable."

"Captured by Marshaaks' men on purpose, he was. Manipulated the situation to his own purposes. Used a sleep compulsion on you, Padawan, he did. Used your loyalty to force the Council's hand. Blameless you would have been if abandoned him you had."

"I counseled just that," I put in. Here comes the hard part. I don't really want to strike this blow, but it's my duty. "And what was your response?"

Now we have Qui Gon's attention. He didn't know that I had been on the verge of leaving him to his well-deserved fate. His eyes widen as he studies his Padawan.

Kenobi addresses me levelly, not a flicker of emotion anywhere. I am impressed. "I begged you, Master Windu. I took responsibility for the decision and my master's actions. And I suggested the plan for his rescue."

Depa folds her hands. "Which included hiring a smuggler crew to transport the slaves back to Republic space," she clarifies. "And holding Master Windu at lightsaber point."

She is protective of me, naturally. I hide my smile and turn back to the two Jedi in the center of the room.

"Yes, my masters." Kenobi holds his head high. He is a man going to his execution. I know the look well.

"You are….blessed…Jinn.," I growl. The ingrate doesn't even know how very, very true this is. "I would have left you. The Jedi Code is not to be manipulated to suit your own desires. Had your Padawan not intervened, you would still be in Marshaaks' clutches."

The look he directs at me is not one considered appropriate for use inside the Temple precinct, much less the Council chamber. At least Kenobi has the decency to blush on his master's behalf.

"Discussed this we have already," Yoda informs them. "Amends to be made, there are."

Yes," I say. "You, Qui Gon, are my sparring partner every day for the next two months. There will be no missions for either of you during that time. You are both officially on probation as of this moment forward, until the Council reconsiders your case in sixty days. At that time, you will each recite the entire traditional enchiridion portions of the Chakora commentary on the Code, by heart, in front of the entire Council."

Qui Gon looks like this might be a tolerable arrangement. Kenobi is expressionless, but dismay seeps through his mental shields.

"Two months?" Qui Gon repeats. "That is a long time. Surely there is some work we can participate in…." They both hate idleness.

"I'm not finished. There is still the matter of the smugglers. The Temple has remunerated them from its private treasury. You will be repaying that rather staggering sum, since it was you who formed the contract."

Jinn's eyebrows rise. Hadn't thought of that, had you my maverick friend? "How?" He asks politely. He really hasn't a clue what's coming.

I steeple my fingers, savoring this moment. "There are some very generous individuals in the Senate who have agreed to donate a fraction of their fundraising proceeds to the Feorians' cause. The profits should cover the debt to the smugglers, as well as a hefty contribution to the relocation effort."

Qui Gon looks pleased. "That is good news. And how does this involve Obi Wan and myself?"

"You will be attending every one of the gala events. There are seventeen scheduled over the duration of your probationary period, plus four public parades. I'm sure you will find the experience highly reformational."

Silence. Qui Gon's pleased expression slides off his face, to be replaced by utter impassivity. The Force churns with his outrage and disgust. Beside him, Kenobi seems to shrink into his robes. I think I catch him casting a fleeting glance at Yoda – a plea for mercy. I don't _think_ so. It took a lot of calls to arrange this punishment.

They bow, in unison, as unhappy as a pair of kitlings dunked in a cold river. "Yes, masters."

When the burnished doors hiss shut behind their retreating backs, I finally allow my laughter to burst forth. Serves you right, gentlemen!

* * *

><p>Well, here we are. Not exactly on a diplomatic mission. We are at present surrounded by forty seven gluttonous senators and aides, thirteen obnoxious and assorted consorts and concubines, and a sea of officious serving droids. The floating barge sluggishly wends its way through Coruscant's skies. Pieces of confetti are stuck in my hair – the sticky kind. It wil hurt coming out.<p>

"No thank you," I tell the serving droid offering me bubbling chappaga. Though possibly I should just drink myself into a stupor – anything to alleviate the vile boredom of these events. And to think this is just number three of twenty-one total. I shall have to be committed to the permanent care of the mind healers when this ordeal is over. My master should already have been committed years ago.

"Not so," he smiles, reading the unspoken thought.

"Master, I find myself tempted to jump off the edge."

"Suicide is not the Jedi way," he sighs. "Or I would join you."

We watch as the barge passes a senatorial residence building. I avert my eyes form some of the revelry going on in the upper balconies, the penthouse suite with its transparent domed roof. How much longer? The Twi'Lek Senator's concubine is twining herself around me, and I have to extricate myself from her soft but rather intrusive fingers.

"Excuse me, Ma'am."

She actually bites me on the ear before departing. Force help me! We are trapped on a pleasure barge with these beings for at least another three hours…how could Master Windu be so cruel? I look up at Qui Gon. He has a bruise purpling across one cheek. Another sparring session this morning, then. Master Windu has been further developing his own special saber form, called _vapaad_. It is considered a form of Dark Side flirtation. I don't doubt it.

"It is worth it, Obi Wan," my master reminds me.

The Feorians. Innocent people saved. I have to keep repeating it to myself. This is possibly the worst thing we have ever suffered on behalf of Qui Gons' strays – his famous lost causes. I'm not sure how much more championing of the underdog I am wiling to undertake.

"You'll be brilliant, Obi Wan," he tells me. What? Is that a prediction about the future? No thank you, master, please keep your focus in the present moment where it belongs. On the other hand, this present moment is extraordinarily uncomfortable, so I don't blame you.

"I owe you not only my thanks, but an apology, Padawan."

We haven't discussed Seluvia since that first argument on the ship… and here he picks this time and place. Typical Qui Gon. I shrug. The truth is, I've already forgiven him. What's done is done…and Qui Gon would not be himself unless he occasionally strayed so far out of the expected bounds that he gave the Council a conniption. And I have to admit that after all the days in the camp, and many more meditating on the question…well, I have grown fond of the Feorians. Part of me secretly agrees that it was worth it.

"No apology is needed, master…but I accept." He lays a hand on my shoulder. All is forgiven and forgotten. How else would it end?

"I'll make it up to you," he promises, really and truly wishing to mend the rift, a pledge never to manipulate me in that manner again. "As soon as we are…ah…out on parole. We can take a quick training trip somewhere. Your choice. Ragoon? Stellaria? Alderaan?"

That is an offer I won't refuse, although it is completely unnecessary. On the other hand our training trips never work out as planned. Perhaps I should request something a bit more staid. Where would I like to go when this absurd probationary period is over?

"Why don't we go check on the Feorians?" I suggest, surprising even myself. But I mean it; this is the simple truth. "I'd like to see how they're coming along."

Qui Gon smiles, that rare burst of warmest joy that lights up not only his lined face but the Force itself. And the night doesn't seem so torturous after all.


End file.
